What He Will Never Know
by orangeflavor
Summary: "'I only wanted to be free,' he repeats, this time a hopeless exhale. This time with the knowledge that there may be no such thing." - Madness, blood, and freedom. The story of Jowan's dark descent.
1. Spice and Corpses

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: It's M for a reason, kiddies. Graphicness ahead, mostly in the second chapter. Please enjoy.

What He Will Never Know

Chapter One: Spice and Corpses

 _"'I only wanted to be free,' he repeats, this time a hopeless exhale. This time with the knowledge that there may be no such thing."_ \- Madness, blood and freedom. The story of Jowan's dark descent.

Jowan remembers the first time he split his skin open in a darkened, stale alcove of Kinloch Hold. He holds the knife close to the inside of his forearm, sleeve rolled up over his elbow, the tip of the blade pressed shakily against his flesh. He swallows tightly, eyes fixed on the cool steel along his arm. His own ragged breathing is deafening in the silence around him.

Jowan strains his ears for any footfalls or voices. There is nothing but his own delirious panting and racing heart. He swears he can feel the organ thudding in his ears. He licks his lips and narrows his eyes in the dense shadow behind a book shelf. Having shifted the small northern shelf of the library just so, and having pushed the desk further out into the corridor, Jowan has created an unseen corner of darkness beneath the tower stairs. It is cramped, and smells of wet stone and mold. But if he braces himself against the back of the stone stairs, he is invisible to patrolling templars.

At least, from sight.

Jowan's fingers flex against the hilt of the blade once more, counting out the seconds until the next patrol makes its way through the corridor alongside the library. The trembling mage can't risk the templar sensing his blood magic. So he holds still. Counts the breaths. Closes his eyes and listens.

A solitary, short chuckle. And then the soft tread of steel boots. A second voice, nonchalant and the slightest bit gravelly. The two passing templars laugh in unison then.

Jowan's jaw clenches at the sound, his body reflexively tightening, preparing. He has only known pain to follow that sound. But then their voices are receding, their footfalls growing faint. And Jowan knows he has only eight minutes before another templar presence is in range of sensing his magic.

He blinks furiously, eyes trained on his unbroken skin, fingers clenching tightly against the haft of his blade. Suddenly, the weight of his decision is like a rock in his gut, dragging him down, pulling him deeper.

He urges his hand to press the blade down but nothing happens.

He is stricken with panic.

Jowan whips his head up, blinking frantically through the darkness. He can see a weak shaft of moonlight breaking across the empty corridor up ahead from a thin slit in the Tower stone. It plays like music on his mind, softening and peaceful.

But everything in him is raging.

He chokes out a gurgle of frustration, half blind fear and half self-resentment. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to focus on what's important. What's needed and unquestionable and constant. Tries to remind himself of the _why_.

He sees straw hair behind his closed lids. Amber eyes and thin lips.

It is not Lily his mind grasps for.

Jowan's eyes shoot open and he steadies his quaking hold of the knife. He remembers the strangling air in the Tower. The constant, lingering threat of terror and brutality and worse. Oh, so much worse that he thinks death might be a blessing.

But not Tranquility.

 _Never_ that.

Because then he couldn't reach for straw hair or smile into amber eyes or imagine thin, pale lips pressed against his.

Empty.

Caged.

Alone.

Jowan knows he cannot stay imprisoned any longer. Not by them. Not even by _her_.

He twists his wrist sharply and the dagger cuts deep, scraping along his smooth, previously unmarked forearm. The sharp pain is startling at first, but he has felt worse, and soon it is only a faint memory.

Because then there is only blood.

Blood and magic and dark whispers he thinks he might recognize from dreams. From the shadowy corners of his mind he shares with no one.

Like silken fingers through his thoughts. Soothing. But aching. Distant. Just out of reach.

They beckon.

Jowan blinks through the Fade-touched fog and stares at the cold grey stones beneath his feet to focus. And then he smells it. The blood. It streams in thin rivulets down the length of his arm. His eyes lock to the red stream and he pulls a deep breath in. There is a warm spice to the air, like musk and oak. But beneath it there is a sour tang, like the dead rat corpses he would find in the cellar tunnels. His nostrils burn in delirium.

And then something is building in his core. Tight and shifting. A constricted knot of energy that begins to seep out into his limbs, through the broad length of his shoulders, the slow outstretching arms, all the way to his fingertips. It pulses through him, as though every nerve is alight with magic, every pore is suffused with his mana. Until he is full of it.

His whole body, emanating power he has never felt before, never even dared to hope for.

His eyes glaze over in a reverent awe. His mouth hangs agape. Blood drips unfettered to the cold stone below. He curls his fingers into fists and breathes his first breath of air that doesn't feel beaten or enslaved or powerless.

Jowan can taste his freedom in the air.

Like spice and corpses.

He vows to never been enslaved again.

* * *

The first time Jowan had seen Nasir Surana, he didn't think she looked like much, certainly not pretty. Her quickly flitting eyes were always keen, always observing, small and amber. Her cheek bones were especially gaunt when she first arrived at the tower, and she cradled her arms around her thin elven form so that he couldn't quite make out the jutting bones of her hips or the sunken arc of her collarbone. Her dull blonde hair was pulled back into a low bun, thin strips of the coarse strands falling into her face. She didn't utter a word for many days upon her arrival, her lips pinched in a perpetual purse as though words were always on her tongue but kept hidden from the world by the cage of her teeth. He might have forgotten about her were it not for the intense heat of her magic when he first brushed past her. There was power there even he could sense.

The kind of power he needs now.

Nasir folds her arms over her chest and stares at Jowan, her brows in a low furrow over her eyes. "You want me to what?" she breathes tersely.

Jowan glances around the empty chapel and edges closer toward her. Nasir's fingers tighten in their hold of her arms. His eyes soften at the sight. Reaching up hesitantly, he plants his hands along her arms and sighs. His eyes plead with her.

"Help me take back my freedom," he whispers.

Nasir draws a heavy breath in but doesn't speak.

Lily steps up beside Jowan, her hand falling along his shoulder. "Please, Nasir," she implores softly. "You know they will take him for the Rite of Tranquility. Could you allow that to happen to your friend?"

"Of course not," the elven mage snaps, and then quiets. She lets out a long, slow breath, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

Jowan's hands fall back to his sides.

"Jowan, you must know I only want the best for you," Nasir whispers haltingly, her eyes closed, hand over her face.

Jowan swallows and waits for more. He feels Lily squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

Nasir drops her hand and looks back up to him. "Is this truly what you want?"

How he wishes to tell her. To _show_ her. To make her see what he truly wants.

It isn't Lily.

But he is tired of being a prisoner, even if it is to _her_.

When he doesn't answer, Nasir steps closer, so that she can peer up into his eyes, so that he can smell her in the sparse air between them.

Like pine and coriander.

He breathes deep and reminds himself to get out. Get out and away and as far as he can go. Into the hills. Over oceans and mountains. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that isn't suffocating.

He knows she will never look at him with anything but friendship in her eyes. And he doesn't know when he had begun to need more.

"It's what we want," Lily affirms, sliding her hand from Jowan's shoulder to link around his own. She leans into him and sends a brilliant smile his way.

Nasir raises her brows to Jowan expectantly.

He nods, voice broken in his throat. He swallows thickly, his hand tightening around Lily's. "It's what I _need_ , Nasir."

She watches him in silence for many moments. The candlelight flickers over her face so that there are shadows beneath her eyes he has never seen before. Her cheeks are gaunt once more, her lips thinned in a contemplative purse.

But she has never been so beautiful.

She nods, once, swiftly, her eyes shifting to the corner of the chapel, her hands rubbing up and down her arms. "Then I will help you."

Jowan's smile is shaky but uncontrollable. His relief rushes from him in a single wave of breath.

Lily sighs excitedly beside him.

When he opens his mouth to thank Nasir she is already speaking, her arms dropping from their hold of her, her back straightening. "Just meet me outside my quarters an hour after evening meal. We'll figure it out from there." She is already moving for the door. Already out of his reach.

When she is gone from the room, Lily turns Jowan to her and embraces him. He lets himself relax into the touch.

"I knew she would help us," the initiate whispers against his shoulder. His fingers splay against her back. "She is a dear friend."

"Yes," he breathes into her hair. "Yes, she is."

Lily pulls from him, keeping her hands around his waist, her eyes peering brilliantly up toward his. "You'll be free, Jowan. Just like you always wanted. And we will be free _together_."

"I love you," he says, hoping she cannot sense the lie in it.

She blushes and drops her gaze to the floor. "And I love you," she whispers, her smile slowly breaking across her features.

He pulls her back into his embrace, threads his fingers through her short, brown strands. He pretends it is straw hair he strokes. He imagines it is a thin, lithe body pressed to his. He imagines it is pine and coriander that floods his nostrils and not candle wax and cedar.

He imagines that Lily is the escape he has wished for all these long years.

* * *

Jowan can feel the building power in the templar guards blocking their path from the phylactery chamber. Beside him, Lily and Nasir tense in response. Irving is shaking his head, his eyes sad and decided. He holds a hand to his forehead as though in pain.

As though _he_ were the one in pain.

Jowan finds an unexpected rage flaring to life within him. He braces his feet in the stone and begins to pull the mana slowly into his palm. Nasir's hand on his arm startles him. He turns to her, finds her eyes hard and regretful on his, finds the warmth of her fingers not comforting but urgent. She shakes her head, so minutely he might not have caught it if he weren't completely and utterly in love with every miniscule detail of her form.

Irving sighs and it draws Jowan's attention. "I had hoped for better from you," he says.

Jowan glances to the First Enchanter and finds his eyes on Nasir, not him. He curls his hands into fists and takes a bold step forward. The templars reach instinctively for their swords, hands stilling on the hilts at their belts. "She is not at fault, First Enchanter. _I_ am. _I_ convinced her to help me." Jowan's voice is sure and purposeful for the first time he can ever remember.

Irving's eyes flit to the young man. "No one has ever made Nasir Surana do anything she hadn't already wanted to do." He says it like a sigh. Like a burden.

Nasir drops her gaze from the First Enchanter, her body going slack.

"No," Irving continues. "There is blame enough for the three of you."

Lily's hand is suddenly on Jowan's arm, her fingers flexing tightly in his robes and he can feel her trembling even from here. "Please," she whispers. "We only wanted freedom."

"And you shall have it," Irving answers, his voice a low promise, a cheerless admission. His eyes bore into Jowan's.

Jowan has only a moment for the words to set in before the templars first move against them. He doesn't think. Doesn't hesitate. Doesn't do anything but reach instinctively for the dagger at his waist and bring it to his palm. "No!" he screams, his voice catching in his throat, a hoarse cry.

And then the corridor is splashed in blood.

This he knows. This he has come to understand. To find comfort in. The faint smell of spice and corpses. The warm gush along his palm that promises power. Control. Freedom. The slick river of blood that pulses along his flesh, enflamed with mana. The dark whispers that curl along his mind, soothing and enticing all at once.

He has forgotten what fear feels like when his flesh is ripped open.

The Fade is like a song he can't quite remember, a memory he can't quite recall, a touch he can't quite reclaim. It is always there. Lingering at the edges of his mind. Calling to him in a language only the Maker knows. Ever present. Ever ethereal. But it is only when his blood is shed in sacrifice and his mind desperate in its yearning that the Fade seems to come alive.

It is all around him then. A dense fog that seems to buffer his buoyant body. A cascading wave of energy and magic that wisps around him. He is everything and nothing all at once. He is powerful and powerless all at once. He is the world and its people and the air they breathe all at once. He is all this but a prisoner.

Jowan's eyes flood a threatening black and he pulls his hands back in a curling wave before surging them forward, his magic rushing through his limbs in an overwhelming euphoria that breaks from his palms like a wall of blood. It crashes into the templars and First Enchanter with a force that knocks them back several feet. They are thrown into the stone wall of the corridor, their bodies flailing and then suddenly limp. It is a sickening crunch of bones that echoes throughout the hall, and then steady, deafening silence.

There is only the dark whisper of something feral and alluring in Jowan's ear.

"Jowan."

He blinks back into consciousness at Lily's voice. It is a jagged whisper, lodged tight in her throat, as though she had forced it to air with unfathomable effort.

He glances toward her and finds her inching back from him, her hands held against her chest in fright. Her mouth hangs agape, shuddering in her attempt to speak, eyes wide and unblinking. "You…you…" She can get nothing else out.

Jowan swallows tightly and pulls his hands back, holding them before him as he looks down at the bloody palms. He flicks his gaze to the unconscious bodies along the wall, and then back to his palms. Words swell in his chest he thinks might be pointless. But he tries anyway. "Lily, I…" he croaks, swallows, tries again. "I did what I had to." He blinks again, the faint whisper of the Fade falling from his mind, his palms burning now in a comforting reminder of mortality. "I did what I had to for _us_ ," he urges, eyes shifting back to hers now. "For freedom."

One of Lily's hands slinks up her collar and to her throat, her eyes never leaving his. "You're a blood mage," she whispers scathingly, like the words are acid on her tongue.

"No," he challenges, suddenly firm, suddenly certain. He takes a step toward her but stops as she stumbles back, bracing herself against the wall. "No, I…I…"

"You are," he hears behind him.

Jowan's breath catches in his throat. His words fail him. He closes his eyes to Nasir's voice behind him and hopes desperately, achingly – like he has never hoped for before – that this is but an illusion of the Fade.

"You're a blood mage," she repeats behind him.

And he knows it is real. The way her breath catches on the words, the way they tumble from her pale, thin lips like a curse. The way she doesn't need to say anything else to break him.

He does not need to see her face to know the anguish that lines it. But he turns anyway. Hesitantly. Slowly. He braces his palms against his robes and tries uselessly to wipe the blood.

Nasir's eyes are trained on his when he meets her gaze.

They are eyes he has never seen before.

Her lip is caught between her teeth, her brows knitted almost painfully together. He can see the tremble lining her jaw from where he stands. She takes a staggering breath in, pulling her staff closer to her body as though for protection.

The thought nearly brings him to tears.

Nasir closes her eyes and shakes her head, tears pooling unnoticed in the corners of her lids. "Jowan, how…how could you?" It is a desperate whisper, a quaking disbelief.

He opens his mouth but it is a hoarse croak that leaves him. His hands reach toward her. His bloody, dirty hands.

She curls her shoulders in on herself.

Jowan stops. He swallows thickly, hands slowly coming back to his sides. "I…I couldn't let them take me," is all he can manage.

"I would have helped you!" she almost screams, her voice raw. "You _know_ that. You _know_ I wouldn't have let them take you." Nasir brushes a tangled strand of blonde back from her cheek.

Jowan closes his eyes, feels the aching breath pooling in his chest. "I know you would have failed," he whispers in a sigh. Resigned. Regretful.

Nasir's mouth opens and then promptly closes.

When Jowan can hear nothing but her thick, heavy breaths, he opens his eyes, finds her arms cradling herself, her gaze shifted to the far wall where Irving's body lays prostrate. "This place has been nothing but a prison for me, Nasir."

Her eyes flick hesitantly back toward his.

He looks down at his slashed palms once more. "There was no way of getting out alive, getting out whole."  
"So you became this?" she spits, harsh and cutting. "This…this…" Her face screws up in betrayal.

"This monster?" he finishes for her, because he knows the words she won't say. He knows how they sling sharp, cutting shame because he has already said them himself. Already cursed and lamented his own weakness. Already held the weight of his treachery in his hands and felt it pool slick and warm like a small river.

He wonders if maybe he wouldn't be better off dead.

But then he hears it. That faint, deadly whisper in the back of his consciousness. That keening beckon of forces dark and unfathomable. Exhilarating. Enthralling. The blood in his veins flares to life. Demons he has no name for slither through his consciousness.

And it just _feels so damn good_.

So good he thinks they might have been wrong all these years.

It's the blood that makes him righteous.

Nasir narrows her eyes at Jowan. "This is not the way, my friend."

He wonders how she can still shame him so. How she can still stir this rending, terrible need in him. Even when he has already tasted his own glory in the bitter blood on his tongue. "It will have to be _my_ way," he says. He cannot stop the break in his voice.

And he knows she doesn't believe him.

He can hardly believe himself. It is all slipping away so quickly, so intangibly. He has never felt so powerless as when Nasir Surana stared him down with betrayal in her gaze. Never felt so ensnared as when her hard amber eyes held him in accusation. He thinks he can see the gathering wetness of tears along her lids from where he stands.

"I promised myself I'd be free," he begins again, his voice heavy, shoulders sagging. "Free from this place, from this curse of magic, from…" He stops, voice catching. He gulps the words down, finds new ones, ones that won't bring to light the shameful, cowering parts of him that drown him at night. He finds his voice. "Free from the desperation and indignity and constant terror of this _Maker-forsaken place_ , this absolute shit hole of a Tower," he seethes through clenched teeth. He finds the salt sting of tears along his own eyes. "I mean, dammit Nasir, couldn't you tell? Couldn't you tell that I was dying more _every day_? Every damn day. Just…trapped and beaten and…Maker, there aren't words for the fear I've been living with. But you would never know. You couldn't. Because this has never been a prison for you."

Nasir blinks in confusion at him, her mouth curving down into a sharp frown at his words.

But he doesn't stop. _Couldn't_ stop. Not if it meant his sanity, or his freedom, or even her love. He has lost all these already. And he could never stop. "Magic has always come so naturally to you, so easily. You've always been Irving's favorite, even when he wouldn't say it aloud. We all knew, regardless. We always knew. How could we not? How could we not notice the absolute power emanating from you? The way you capture every gaze in a room, without even trying, without even _knowing_. This tower worships you, it loves you, _I_ lov- " he stops then, his voice halting painfully in his throat as he catches himself. But it isn't fast enough.

Nasir's eyes widen in the blaring silence that follows. It is only Lily's low moan of denial – or fear or heartbreak (Jowan isn't entirely sure) – that bleeds into the silence.

Nasir's arms slip from their hold around her. She stares blankly at him, chest rising heavily with her suddenly labored breaths.

Jowan doesn't think it could get much worse. His bloody hands. His unsalvageable soul. His shredded heart lying on the floor between them. The stark silence that breathes of _won't_ and _couldn't_ and _too much space_.

Maker, too much fucking space between them. And not enough air.

So he clamps his mouth shut. Grinds his teeth as he pulls a shaking breath through his nostrils. Curls his hands into fists at his side and feels the slick warmth of blood gush between his calloused fingers. He is just so tired of looking at freedom from the dark, shuttered confines of this cage he calls fear. So he clears his throat and tries for words once more. Tries to make her understand why he needs this.

Why he may as well just be flesh for the crows without it.

"You've never been a prisoner, Nasir. Even here. Even in the presence of such brutality and desperation. You could never understand. Not until the walls are closing in around you and the air is suddenly gone from the room. Not until you're standing in my place and utterly _terrified_ of tomorrow."

Her elven face is pinched tight with pain, her lip quivering slightly. "Jowan…"

"I'm sorry that I brought you into this. Truly I am." He takes a brave step closer and quietly revels in the knowledge that she doesn't retreat. He brings a slow, hesitant hand to her cheek. "I would never wish such a fate on you. You," he chokes, face softening with the light of love he has kept hidden for years. "You, least of all," he finishes on a shaky breath.

Nasir's mouth slips open but no words form. She does not try to remove his hand from her cheek.

"Even still," Jowan continues, steeling himself, his hand dropping from the warmth of her cheek. "You have helped me gain some semblance of freedom. And it is all I could ask for."

"But this…this is…" Nasir spreads her arms, encompassing the unconscious bodies behind her, the spray of blood along the stone floor, their quaking forms in the shadowed corridor. As though the world were in her arms. Everything they knew. Everything they could understand.

But this, Jowan couldn't say he understood this. The quiet moment of everything and nothing passing between them. The way his eyes follow the graceful line of her throat beneath her collar and then suddenly, without warning, the image of her soft flesh sliced open is flooding his mind.

More blood for his hands, for his deep pooling magic, for his needy, ravenous touch.

Jowan's eyes widen in sudden panic, his hands rising to brace on either side of his head, his mouth hanging open. All he can see for one blinding moment is the ruined flesh of her throat and all he can feel is the promising surge of power through his veins.

He must turn from her.

It takes him many long moments and many steadying breaths before he can lift his gaze. Hands falling slowly back to his sides, he turns first to Lily and finds that she has slumped down the stone wall and sits with her back braced against it, one hand seemingly permanently affixed to her throat, the other bunched in her skirts. Her eyes are glazed and downcast, tears already wetting the smooth paleness of her cheeks.

Something flickers inside him that feels achingly like regret. He reaches for the broken woman. "Lily," he breathes softly.

Her eyes flash to him and she tries to retreat further into the wall, her knuckles white in their grip, eyes unblinkingly wide as she whimpers her fear.

"Don't you touch her," Nasir threatens lowly behind him.

He stops. Straightens his back. Turns slowly toward the elven mage. There is hurt in his eyes he cannot keep from spilling forth.

She gulps, but keeps her staff trained on him.

"I would never harm her. Nor you," he whispers softly, his throat tightening with the words.

She only stares at him, tears hot along her lids, grip shaking on her staff.

Jowan sighs with his whole body, eyes flicking to the floor. "I only wanted to be free," he repeats, this time a hopeless exhale. This time with the knowledge that there may be no such thing.

Many moments of weighted silence pass between them.

Then, so softly he barely catches it, he can hear Nasir take a single, slow breath in, before she is speaking, her voice a halting rasp. "Then go."

He looks up at her, at her slack shoulders, her lowered staff. Her mouth is a tight line, her brows quaking over her unblinking eyes.

"Nasir," he begins, edging toward her.

"Don't make me say it again," she whispers raggedly, the tears finally breaking free of her lashes.

Jowan cannot know whether he will ever see her face again. And though it is shrouded in pain and distrust, he doesn't ever want to forget the way it looks this very moment. So he traces the curves of her lips and the dip of her cheekbones and the sharp angle of her knotted brow with his ardent eyes. He captures this image of her distant visage and buries it deep in his heart where even the whispers may not reach.

His love for her is his and his alone. Not to be perverted by this new and intoxicating power. This dangerous thrill of what he isn't so sure is any less a prison than where he comes from.

Nasir's mouth opens, trembling. Her fingers flex against her staff. "Run," she says. It is more a plea.

Jowan swallows tightly and keeps her steady gaze for a moment longer, until she breaks it to look back at the bloodied unconscious forms of the templars across from them. He nods, mostly to himself, fists shaking at his sides.

He turns back to Lily, his throat suddenly rife with things he wants to say, with words he knows _should_ be said but she will not meet his eyes, and he doesn't even know whether she would believe them, so he settles for this: "I'm sorry."

She only whimpers, arms pulling her knees tighter to her chest, eyes squeezed shut in what Jowan can only imagine is terror but hopes beyond all else is understanding.

He doesn't even know what he means when he says it. For what wrong or what hurt it applies. He thinks maybe it is for everything. For a lot of things. Maybe for nothing.

Maybe for thinking "I'm sorry" could ever be enough.

Jowan sighs. He takes one last look at the small elven woman with her eyes boring into his. And then he is off down the corridor. His footsteps are loud and reverberating to his ears. The heavy pant of his breaths pounding in the silence. The laden rush of blood in his veins thunderous.

But above all else he hears her.

"Run," she says.

So he does.

But it isn't toward freedom.


	2. Pine and Coriander

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

What He Will Never Know

Chapter Two: Pine and Coriander

 _"'If you will not draw the line, then I will,' she promises steadily, voice low."_ \- Madness, blood, and freedom. The story of Jowan's dark descent.

Jowan keeps off the major roads as he makes his way through West Hill and east along the Coastlands toward Amaranthine, where he hopes to catch a ship headed for Tevinter. The decision to seek refuge in Tevinter is not an easy one. But it seems the only place where his magic and his name will not be hated. Not be feared. Not be caged.

The scraggy hills are difficult to climb, his thin leather boots catching on roots and rock all through the woodland passages. His palms are scratched and sore from catching himself as he trips, his whole body aching and muscles spent. He looks up along the dense tree line and sees the sun dipping through the branches. Grumbling and cursing, Jowan tramples through the foliage and hauls himself up another rocky ledge, fingers raw against the thick tree he braces himself against. Panting, Jowan leans back along the rough bark, his head tilted back to gaze into the darkening sky. Something howls in the distance and he whips his head toward the sound. He swallows thickly and sighs, decides to keep moving. He can get in another hour, maybe two, of daylight, before he has to make camp.

If he's lucky, he might come across one of the small rivers flowing toward the ocean just north of the Coastlands. He takes another whiff of his soiled robes and scrunches his nose in distaste. He hasn't had a bath in days, and the scruff along his chin is beginning to itch irritably. His skin is constantly coated in a layer of sweat and grime. He has never longed for the Tower before but the thought has crossed his mind once or twice since beginning this trek. Jowan shakes his head, dismisses the thought. He can go as long as he needs without a bath if it means his freedom. Food, however, is another story. His stomach lets out a long, low protest.

Jowan has risked entering a handful of small villages since he began his march, for the sole purpose of purchasing food. The meager coin he had when he fled Kinloch Hold doesn't get him much more than bread and cheese, and occasionally some piece of over-ripe fruit if the vendor is feeling particularly generous. He doesn't stay long on these visits. Can't risk the townspeople's suspicion. He buys his food, asks about the nearest well or river, sometimes trades some trinket he has kept through the trip, and then is on his way. He doesn't give a name. Only a weary face and a heavy sigh when they ask. And then he tells them he is a long way from home. He figures this much is true at least. And anything else is too risky to reveal. He never lies. He is done with lying. It has only gotten him a lost friend and a lost love, and the painful image of their backs.

He figures he can probably manage to hunt and kill something, even something small. It shouldn't be too hard. Perhaps a rabbit, or some rodent, or hell, a nug if he's lucky. He can start a fire, skin the animal, and then roast it over the flames. Finally, some meat to add to his languishing bones. Only one thing stops him. The blood. He isn't sure he won't crumble if he touches it, even the weakened blood of an animal. He isn't sure that even the hint of that telltale scent, that disturbingly intoxicating scent, won't send him into fitful Fade-induced delirium. He can't chance it. _Won't_ chance it. He tells himself he is done with blood magic. It got him what he needed. A way out. And now the rest is up to him, just him. Just Jowan.

He tells himself he doesn't need it.

Looking back up into the darkening sky, Jowan purses his lips in thought. He should be setting up camp soon. But then he stops. Something catches on the wind and he stills a hand along a steadying tree to take a deep, long breath.

There.

There it is.

Smells like freedom.

Jowan blinks back the uncontrollable swell of excitement that begins to build in his chest and his fingers dig into the tree bark.

Blood on the wind.

Jowan tries. Truly he does. He tries to hold it back, to steel himself, to gather his waning strength and hold tight to the tree. But then the whispers are back. Their silken fingers threading through his thoughts once more, pulling softly at his mind, their touch a whisper and a howl all at once. Something laughs in the distant reaches of his mind.

And then his feet are moving of their own accord. Breaking through the foliage underneath and scraping along rocks as he climbs up the angling hill. His eyes have already adjusted to the slowly darkening light, his gaze flicking through the dense tree line and around the forest floor. He scrambles for only a moment and then he finds it.

The carcass of a deer lying in the bloodied grass. The shadows of dusk fall eerily along the ruined flesh of the animal, its entrails spilling out from the wide gash in its stomach and coating the grass below.

Jowan stops instantly, his feet mere inches from the dead animal. His eyes affix to it and stare, unblinking, utterly focused. He takes a deep breath in and tries to control the heady wave of power that tingles along his limbs, even in its faintness.

The carcass is mauled, as though a bear or pack of wolves had recently taken to it. The jutting bones of its ribcage and shredded meat of its hind are still moist with blood, still fresh. The thought that some predator is still near doesn't even register in Jowan's mind.

There is only the blood.

He swallows thickly and kneels down, eyes never leaving the corpse. His gaze flicks up to the maw of the deer, the flesh partially gnawed off, its dark eyes peeled skyward. A sudden, swift wave of nausea overtakes him. He squeezes his eyes shut to the gruesome sight, his hand moving to cover his mouth. It takes him several moments of deep breathing before he opens his eyes to the forest floor below him.

The brush is slick with blood. Deep red splashed all along the dirt and leaves. So fresh it still trickles to the ground in a steady stream.

Jowan's breath halts. His hand slowly falls from over his mouth. He watches the barely-there drip of warm red fall from the carrion to the moist ground below. His hand moves without him even realizing. His eyes are trained on the light stream as his fingers slip beneath it. And then the blood is along his fingertips, warm and familiar. He spreads it along the pads of his fingers, watches the bright smear of red as it stretches over his skin.

The power builds slowly, reassuringly, inside him. It isn't as strong as when his own blood is shed. But it is enough. Enough to awaken that lingering thrill inside him. Enough to remind him that it isn't gone.

Such a fool.

Such a damn fool to think he didn't need it.

Even as he gives himself up to it, he hates that he is enslaved once more.

But Maker, just the feel of it. The exhilarating freedom of it. His whole body enflamed. His mind elevated. His soul –

His soul.

Lost, he knows. He's sure of it.

The thought brings him back to consciousness. Jowan blinks and looks down, finds his hand dug into the softened flesh of the dead deer, his fingers gripping tightly to its still heart, just beneath the cage of its ribs. His fingers are slick with the still-warmth of the animal's blood. He chokes on a yelp, his hand ripping away frantically from the carcass as he falls back against the forest floor. He stares, wide-eyed at the half-eaten deer before his feet, his hands digging into the dirt. A strangled sob escapes him. Everything crashes inside him.

His remembrance of days in Kinloch Hold. Of Nasir and all her endearing looks, her wistful chuckles. Of Lily and her innocent devotion, her blameless love and unrestricted heart. Even the memory of his lessons, his meals, the quiet, deadening moments he spent in his quarters just wishing – _praying_ – that the world offered more than this. That Jowan was meant for more than _this_.

This slow death and strangled existence.

All this comes flooding through him. And then something new. Something frightening and alluring. The image of the First Enchanter as Jowan knocked him back in a wall of blood. The harsh crunch of bone that accompanied the image. The instant flare of rage that lights within him at the mere thought of 'templar'.

Jowan swallows thickly and forces a single, heavy breath through his nose, raises a hand up to blink furiously at it in the deadening light. Dusk is nearly gone and it is mostly moonlight that filters in through the trees now. Mostly moonlight that illuminates the glistening red of his hand, the dark patches of soil caked into his palm.

Just…dirty.

Sprawled in moonlight and touched by blood.

Dirty.

Jowan licks his lips and finds the first sob catching in his throat.

But he doesn't have the time to shed it. Because suddenly, without warning, he feels a violent shift in the lingering fog of Fade over his mind. An unnatural churning. Almost painful.

He shakes his head and braces his hands in the dirt, pushing himself to his feet as he looks around frantically, breath instantly sharp and uncontrollable in his chest. His whole body is suddenly heavy, his limbs aching and mind dizzy.

"Maleficar!" someone yells through the dense brush.

Jowan's eyes cannot make out the source of the voice but the deadening, cold clamp on his magic is tell enough. "Templars", he curses beneath his breath, digging his heels into the ground and pivoting sharply, breaking into a sprint around the base of the hill where he previously stood.

The sounds of templars crashing through the forest after him lights something of fear and excitement in him. A strange blend of emotion that causes the anxious thud of his heart in his chest and the violent tremor that rakes through him.

He wants to feel their blood on his hands.

"Run,' he replays in his mind, Nasir's soft whisper through the thick haze of memory and need, of magic and truth.

It is all she says in his dreams.

He listens. And he doesn't stop until his knees buckle and the sharp slice of a templar's blade is cutting across his back.

* * *

Bars. Only this time tangible. An actual cell in the dungeon below Redcliffe Castle. Truthfully, not the worst case scenario to come to Jowan's mind. But he is too worn and too tired and too beaten down to relish the optimism of his situation.

His whole body aches. The still-healing slash along his back from when the templars captured him is raw and tender, and his then dislocated shoulder was never set properly, so that it is a dull and throbbing ache that greets him in the night and on especially cold days. And then there is the breaking of his skin where the guards had raised hands and hilts and worse to him. The swollen, dark flesh of his abdomen where a foot nearly kicked his heart into his throat. The broken fingernails from his desperate clawing. The dried patch of blood marring his temple and the incessant throbbing of his head.

No, Jowan can't particularly see the silver lining in his situation.

And then come the empty days. Three of them. No sight of a guard or the Arlessa or even a servant carrying his daily bread and water. Nothing. Silence that reminds him of the nights he lay awake at Kinloch Hold just listening to his own breaths, just to make sure they still came. The hunger gnaws at him until it is an acute, flaring pain. Then, at night, there is a perverse howling that sets his bones to rattling. Trapped in his cell and unable to leave, or speak to anyone, or Maker, even to catch a glimpse of sunlight, Jowan is filled with a rooting terror when each night the screams seem to get closer and he knows the undead are slowly making their way toward him.

On the third night the rotting corpses break into the dungeon corridor. He lays prostrate in the corner of his cell, offering up pleas and bargains to the Maker in the hope that the ambling corpses wander past his cell, thinking him dead. He keeps one eye open beneath the soiled sleeve of his robe and tries to steady his breathing into nothing.

There is a gurgling sound echoing through the hallway, and then the heavy slump of dragging footfalls. A scraping sound sends his body to trembling as a corpse appears in his view, shuffling awkwardly over the cold stone and dragging a rusted sword along the ground. The foul stench hits him like a wall, and it is all he can do to keep the gagging cough from finding air. He chokes softly, smothering the sound in his sleeve, eyes wide and frightened on the passing corpse.

The undead stills and Jowan thinks he might have stopped breathing as he watches the cadaver twist its rotting neck jerkily toward the sound. He bites his tongue to keep his gasp from tumbling forth when the corpse's face is visible. The whole left side of its face is concaved and shredded, as though a mace had been taken to it. Dried and caked blood stretches from the dangling flesh of its cheek to the exposed bone of its shoulder. Rolled back, bloodshot eyes gaze into his cell. Jowan swallows thickly and the terror festers into something uncontrollable, his heart sunk deep in his chest at the dead visage before him. The corpse lets out a garbled moan and leans toward the bars. Another rasping corpse sounding its arrival in the corridor stumbles into view beside the first, its bow slung across the gaping hole in its chest. And then something that Jowan would have called laughter, if it hadn't been so jagged and broken, issues forth from the two undead. The first corpse slams its body into the bars so forcefully and suddenly that Jowan actually jumps. There is no escaping their notice now. The dead warrior snarls and slings a desiccating hand through the bars as though to ensnare Jowan. Foam froths in his hanging jaw and Jowan scrambles back along the wall.

"Stay back!" he tries to yell threateningly, but he can't help the break in his voice or the shameful whimper that follows.

The corpse answers by thrusting its sword through the bars, coming short of Jowan's fearful crouch by only a couple feet. The trembling mage braces his hands along the wall and hauls himself up, eyes flicking to the second corpse as he watches in soldering horror as the dead archer slowly reaches around for its bow and fastens an already-bloody arrow to it.

Jowan's eyes are unblinking as he stares at the cadavers, the overwhelming fear quickly snapping into desperation, his whole body flushing with power. His hands brim with flickering light and he doesn't question the source this time, only braces his hands before him like a threat and bellows through the bars. "I said 'stay back'," he repeats, a daunting shout that is met with only louder growls and inhuman snarling.

The archer pulls back its rotting arm. Jowan's hands flare with fire. And then the rushing thud of footfalls breaks through the air and a single solitary blow from a blade crushes the dead archer beneath its weight, the wielder still blocked from view by the cell wall. Tainted blood splashes across the mage's cheeks. It is disturbingly cold and thick, and Jowan wipes a dirty sleeve along his cheek in response, smearing the flecks of dark blood across his skin. He blinks back his surprise as an arrow sails into the neck of the first corpse, the blade in its hand clanging to the floor before him, its garbled shriek suddenly choked short when its form freezes over instantly with ice. The heavy blade that had crushed the other undead lifts up from the ground and a hulking Qunari steps into view of Jowan's cell, bracing his footing in the stone and swinging back before slicing his blade through the air and shattering the frozen cadaver.

It is over in a matter of seconds. The flames along Jowan's hands sputter into nothing as he stands, rooted and staring at the Qunari warrior. But Sten has caught sight of the faint magic and a deep-cutting frown appears along his face as he straightens and locks gazes with Jowan.

"Maker, that stench," a woman moans, out of view. "I'll need to bathe for a week straight to get it out of my hair."

And then a chuckle so familiar Jowan nearly drops to his knees. "I certainly don't want my pillow smelling of corpse, Leliana." Nasir's voice drifts closer.

The woman named Leliana releases a soft giggle and a man's uncomfortable cough can be heard.

"Kadan," the Qunari nearly barks. And then, succinctly, "A prisoner."

Nasir Surana comes into view.

She is exactly as Jowan remembers her and at the same time, nothing like it. The elven woman's straw hair is no longer pulled back in its usual bun but instead lays undone around her shoulders and brushing along her cheeks. Her amber eyes are wide and affixed to him, the crinkle from her laughter instantly gone. Her cheeks are still gaunt, but the shadows beneath her eyes tell of demons he can never imagine, a darkness he has no hope of understanding. They are no longer shadows he can share. Her small mouth parts in a silent 'o', her shoulders going slack. Her face looks hollowed out to Jowan. Like some vile creature carved its way into her heart and nestled there. As though it watches from her eyes.

As though her body was not her own.

But Jowan is simply so relieved to see her that he doesn't contemplate this too much. Doesn't question it. He only stumbles forward in brilliant disbelief, a smile breaking across his features and hands reaching for the bars.

She takes a step back reflexively, Sten bracing beside her, his blood-slicked blade rising instantly into low-ready position. Jowan doesn't even notice. His fingers slip around the bars, grasping them tightly, his shaky sigh rushing through his whole body, a delirious laugh falling from his lips. "Nasir," he breathes raggedly, and everything is suddenly right in the world.

She takes a visible gulp and her face angles sharply into wariness in the span of a blink. "Jowan," she whispers haltingly.

"Your friend?" Leliana asks softly beside Nasir, recognizing the name, her hand slipping around the Warden's arm comfortingly.

"The blood mage?" a man questions beside them, voice hard and suspicious.

"Alistair," Leliana cautions, her short, red hair brushing along her cheeks.

"A threat to be quelled," Sten affirms gruffly, fingers tightening on the haft of his massive blade.

The fear that lights Jowan's tongue is so familiar he wonders if there was ever a time he _wasn't_ afraid.

"No," Nasir quickly answers, finally tearing her gaze from Jowan and staring up into the demanding eyes of the Qunari warrior, her small elven hand lighting along his muscled arm in reassurance. "Please, just…just wait."

Sten stares down at her small form for a contemplative moment, and then he nods, once, swiftly, a short grunt of acquiescence sounding in his throat. His fingers loosen around his sword, but his eyes are no less threatening when they return to Jowan.

Nasir's hand slips from Sten's arm and she turns back to her former friend, her throat tight with unspoken words. She takes a hesitant step closer to his cell and he instinctually braces against the bars to get closer. As though only the smell of her could settle the shadows of his heart.

As though her nearness were enough to fill the rending void clawing its way through him.

"Jowan," she whispers again, this time gently, this time in a voice he remembers from years past.

His eyes flutter closed in contentment. Even the ache in his bones seems less, the tenderness of his bruises barely present.

"Why are you here?" she breathes against the bars. Cautious. Guarded.

And how he hates that he has ever forced her voice into such strained tones.

Jowan opens his eyes to stare into hers, his brows knitting together. "I ran, Nasir. I did. Just as you said but…"

Her eyes narrow in attentiveness, her feet shifting her closer, so that she could touch him if she only reached.

But she doesn't.

"Why are you here, Jowan?" she repeats, slowly, voice tight.

He swallows and looks down, fingers flexing over the bars, their weight and their firmness so familiar to his heart. "I promise you, Nasir, it was only freedom I wanted."

A long beat of silence spreads out between them, and then Jowan can hear her heavy sigh, and catches the way she leans back on one leg, her hand coming over her face so that he cannot see her pained expression.

So that her amber eyes and thin lips are gone from his view.

So that it is only in her voice that he can sense his own betrayal.

"Tell me," she sighs, heavy and tired.

Jowan begins to wonder if this world and this hurt and this clawing desperation will ever release him. He begins to wonder if 'freedom' is just some foolish illusion he saw once in a dream he never woke up from.

* * *

Jowan has finally understood the harsh reality that he may never see Nasir again. It's in the hours after she has left his cell, after her tears were shed and wiped away. After she had quietly voiced her decision to leave him to Redcliffe's justice. After she had turned her gaze and stood with her back to him for several seconds, just breathing. And then walked away without looking back.

But suddenly the guards are at his cell door and yanking him out, shackling his wrists and dragging him up the stairs. They burst through the doors to the main hall and Jowan stumbles before the small crowd of people. He can see the dark outline of Nasir's back in the candlelight, and her companions standing close by. Isolde is weeping furiously, her hands like claws at her heart, and Teagan stands stoically beside her, fists curled at his side, eyes off on the wall so that they don't fall across the small body on the floor.

Connor.

Jowan blinks in surprise until he catches sight of the boy taking slow, steady breaths. He is only unconscious. But the rending tension in the room is too much for Jowan to feel relief at finding Connor still alive.

Isolde's eyes snap to Jowan at his entrance. Her eyes widen and she gathers her skirts in her hands, half-running half-stumbling over to him. "You, blood mage," she pants in her delirium.

Jowan swallows thickly and stills, feeling the presence of the guards still behind him.

Nasir keeps her back to Jowan.

The arlessa makes her way to Jowan and reaches for his arm, her nails digging into his flesh with the strength of her trembling hold. "You can win your freedom. I'll pardon whatever crime but _please_ – just help my Connor." Her eyes are flooded with tears, and her voice breaks on the name of her child.

Jowan blinks in confusion at Teagan and then Nasir. Neither look at him. He licks his lips and looks back down into the pleading eyes of the woman desperately clutching his arm. "I don't…understand."

"My boy," Isolde moans in anguish. "He is plagued by the demon." Her normally languid and lush accent is suddenly harsh, suddenly jagged with her grievous rage. "But you can free him. You know dark arts that may help him. Please, I beg of you. Do this for me and I will pay any price."

Jowan curls his shackled hands into fists before him and his shoulders sag in helplessness. He chances a glance to Nasir but she stands stiffly away from him. "My lady, there must be another way."

Isolde's face suddenly sharpens into loathing and she turns her heated gaze on the warden, a finger jutting out to point accusingly at Nasir as she spits her fury. "There is. But this… _this woman_ …will not make the trip to the Circle for my dear, dear boy," she ends on a cry.

Nasir's head turns the slightest bit but her face is still obscured from Jowan's view by her loose hair. "There is no time, my lady. If I could I woul – "

"Coward," she seethes, her hand dropping back down to grasp at her skirt, the tears fresh and unrestrained. "You would wish him dead," she moans in a broken voice.

Even from where he stands Jowan can see the quiver of Nasir's shoulders and the tightening of her fists at her sides.

Teagan steps forward and lays gentle hands on Isolde's shoulders. "She is right, Isolde."

The arlessa whips toward Teagan and grabs at the front of his shirt, shaking her head in fierce denial.

He only nods, closing his eyes in anguish. "The voyage to Kinloch Hold is a long one. Too long for us to chance. We have lost so many already. I fear we will not survive another night, especially without the warden." He sighs heavily, and rubs up and down her arms.

"He is but a boy," she whispers between sobs. "A child."

"I know," he gets out between clenched teeth. "And it shouldn't have to be so, but it is."

Nasir finally turns so that she can lock gazes with Isolde when she speaks. "I truly am sorry, my lady. Beyond words." There is defeat in her voice Jowan has never heard before.

Isolde turns cold eyes on the warden. "If you truly are then you will allow this mage to save him."

Nasir takes a bold step forward. "I already told you it isn't an option, yet you sent for him anyway. You are only prolonging your pain, my lady. There is nothing to be done for the lad."

"There is!" she screeches suddenly, ripping herself from Teagan. "There _must_ be a way. There is _always_ a way with blood magic. I have heard this."

"You know not what you ask, Isolde," Teagan says with some measure of command, a firmness to his voice that belies the pain.

"But I do," she whispers fiercely. "I know the cost. And I will pay it." She grasps at the collar of her dress, bunching her shaking fingers in the silk, her eyes wild, shoulders taut. "Please, I will bear whatever burden there is. I ask only this. This _one thing_. Please. I only want him to be free."

 _This one thing_.

To be free.

Jowan blinks in sudden clarity, his clenched fists going slack, his breath leaving him in one long exhale. He finds the words on his tongue readily. "There is a way."

Isolde blinks at him in the silence following his words. Candlelight flickers across her face, shimmering along her tear-stained cheeks. Teagan's groan is low and pained, his hand coming up to cover his face.

And then Nasir's eyes snap dangerously to his and she is stalking toward him. He lifts his shackled hands in defense but she grabs the shoulder of his robe and drags him back, throwing him forcefully up against the wall. He winces at the pain from his bruises and blinks the hot tears from his eyes in time to see Nasir snarling a mere inches from his face.

"What, in the Maker's name, is _wrong_ with you?" she seethes.

Jowan's mouth hangs open momentarily, and then he is gathering up his courage and staring her down. "I can help the boy, Nasir. I can _save_ him."

"With blood magic?" she growls, an arm coming up to brace against his chest and hold him to the wall. "Blood magic never saved anybody. Just look at where it got you."

Jowan glances behind Nasir to find her companions watching them readily, and Teagan with his hands on Isolde's shoulders, practically shaking her as they exchange words in heated voices. His gaze drifts back to Nasir's slit amber eyes. "But there is no other way."

"Then the boy will die."

Jowan can hear the slight crack to her voice as she says it, even as she tries to still her trembling lip and keep her hardened gaze on him. He sighs, bracing his head back against the cold stone behind him. "You would have him die rather than accept blood magic?"

She takes a moment, swallowing thickly, her arm still firm against his chest. "Yes."

"Why?" It is a strained whisper.

"Because there will always be an excuse. Always something to justify its usage. Unless you make no exceptions."

"I never used blood magic without first weighing out _every damn_ option I had," he says defensively, his brows knitting together at the memory. "Only when needed. Only when there was no way out." His mind is flooded with moments of fierce brutality and cutting neglect. He swallows down that sharp slice of remembrance and tells himself _never again_.

"But in the end, you still turned to it," Nasir whispers softly, her lips pulling into a tight frown. "Do you not see? Next time, it may not be a boy's life. Or your freedom. Maybe tomorrow it's for food. And then for vengeance. And then maybe one day, simply because you _like_ it."

Jowan stiffens at her words, at the image of his bloodied hand clenching the heart of a mauled deer in the forest. The weight of it in his palm. The slick heat of its still-fresh entrails. The way his blood had sung in his veins at the mere _scent_ of it.

Oh yes.

He had liked it.

Nasir sighs with her whole body and Jowan knows he has well and truly lost her. How she looks at him with eyes he does not recognize. How she holds him to the wall like a threat. "This madness will overtake you," she breathes in the space between them, a heaviness to her voice that sounds dangerously like regret. "If you will not draw the line, then _I_ will," she promises steadily, voice low.

Finally, she releases Jowan from the wall and turns to the others. She takes a step toward them and pulls her dagger from her belt.

Isolde tears free from Teagan's arms and rushes toward the elf. "No!" she cries brokenly, only to be grabbed once more by Teagan and pulled back across the stone floor. Alistair moves from his small huddle of companions and toward Isolde, taking her other arm and pulling her into his embrace. "Shh, Isolde, please." His own voice breaks and he holds her head to his chest as she shrieks her grief and clings to his arm. Teagan's hand along her back keeps her between the two men, even as she pushes and wails against them.

Sten keeps his eyes keenly on Jowan as Leliana steps up to Nasir, a hand on the elf's elbow. "Are you sure?" she asks softly.

Nasir closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in. "Do not ask me again, Leliana, please." It is a hoarse rasp that leaves her.

Leliana nods, her hand slipping from Nasir's thin elbow, one hand coming up to cover her mouth.

Nasir kneels down beside Connor's prone form and whispers a spell over the unconscious body, her fingers dancing over his eyes. She looks up to Isolde's struggling form and swallows tightly before speaking. "He will feel little pain."

"No," Isolde moans once more, her body sinking to the floor with the exhaustion of her rage and sorrow, bringing Alistair and Teagan down to cradle her quaking form. "Please, my baby. My son." Her voice breaks and words leave her. Only her sobs. Only the keening whimper of a broken woman.

Nasir takes a single steadying breath and turns Connor over to his side, placing the tip of the blade at his back, angling it up toward his heart. She locks eyes with Jowan just before she slips the blade swiftly and cleanly between his ribs. The boy's body jerks minutely, a choked sound falling from his lips, and then he is still, only aftershocks of muscle spasms lingering in his limbs. It passes in moments. In the time it takes for a small pool of blood to start spreading over the floor.

Jowan holds his breath tight in his chest and tries to smother that burgeoning swell of power beginning in his chest. He takes an unconscious step toward them, as though unwillingly pulled toward the blood. He can taste it on his tongue already.

If she only knew.

Nasir slides the blade back out of the dead boy's body, fresh blood spilling forth from the wound. Jowan takes a sharp inhale at the scent flooding the room. The bloody dagger clatters to the floor as the hilt slips from Nasir's trembling fingers.

Isolde's sobs and incoherent words lull around the darkened room as Nasir stands, eyes downcast, and then makes her way toward Leliana. The rogue softens her gaze at Nasir's eyes slowly brimming with tears and reaches for her. Jowan watches as Nasir buries her face in Leliana's chest and the rogue wraps her arms around her thin elven frame, whispering soft shushing sounds into her hair. The elf's bloody fingers clench tightly to Leliana's tunic.

But all Jowan can feel is the power.

The overwhelming, spine-tingling power.

He licks his lips in anticipation, his skin lighting with eagerness, his whole body suddenly weightless and thrumming. His very bones rattle in impatience as he watches the scene before him.

Nasir turns in Leliana's arms to look down at the prone form of Connor and Leliana threads a hand through her loose hair before resting it on her shoulder. Jowan can see the smooth back of Nasir's neck now that she's turned, his view unrestricted by constraining Circle robes or the low bun of her straw hair.

He wants to slide a thin, silver blade down the smooth flesh, watch the blood break along her skin and run his fingertips against the delicious red. He wants to wrap his hands around that lovely little neck and feel the blood gush against his palms. Wants to muddle that sweet scent of pine and coriander with the dark intoxication of spice and corpses.

If she only knew.

Maker, if she only _knew_.

His whole body is awash with unrivaled rapture.

Jowan vows to show her. He vows that she will know in the end. Even if he must be the one to enlighten her. To split that soft, unbroken skin open to the madness.

Jowan finds this cage much more pleasant than any other.

And he understands now. He does. Freedom isn't the gash of red lining his arm. It isn't the unfettered power curling in the pit of his stomach. It isn't his unmarked forehead or his unbound wrists.

Freedom is the absence of fear in Nasir's eyes. It's the smooth, untouched skin of her wrists. It's the break of sunlight across her face. It's the whisper of her voice in his dreams, when she is bloody and writhing beneath his hands.

Freedom is what Jowan will never know.

Because he has always been his own prison.


End file.
